Hypothesis
by achievableformofflight
Summary: John's inspired Sherlock to test a certain hypothesis he holds. Kind of sort of not really slash :D I hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock is testing a hypothesis.

It's a cold winter's evening, and his scarf is hitched tight against his neck, collar turned up against the wind. He stands on a corner of Oxford Street, smack bang in the middle of the pavement so the crowd spills around him like water around a stone. Christmas is in the air and on the lips of every person passing by, but it's over Sherlock's head: his mind is on other things.

His eyes dart quickly from place to place, person to person, measuring and quantifying. A group of lipsticked teenaged girls giggle and pout, hands fluttering up to faces, as his gaze slides over them. He dismisses them quickly. _Superficial, silly and forgettable_. Not what he's looking for.

Instead, he alights upon a father and child in front of John Lewis. The man is exhausted; fatigue clearly visible in the lines of his face and the stoop of his back. Single parent, Sherlock muses; widowed, not divorced, look at the clothes. _Focus, Sherlock_. The child is small and female, judging by the rather garish shade of pink she is clothed in. Her laughter billows out in white clouds as she dances around the man.

_This is promising, _Sherlock thinks, just as the child slips before him on the icy pavement.

The man lunges forwards, but he's too late to catch the child and her cry rises sharp and fast in the cold air.

Sherlock expels a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. He's right about his hypothesis, but he doesn't feel happy, not at all. He knows he should – it's been a long-held belief - but it makes him feel hollow, so he turns to leave while the child's still crying.

As he moves, the man hooks his arms under the child's shoulders and tosses her into the air. Her cries cease immediately. Spellbound, Sherlock freezes in place and watches the girl in the air; the arc of her hair, the way her tears sparkle on her cheeks. For an instant, a blaze of light from the shop window illuminates the pair and Sherlock can see the lines smoothed from the man's face, the way his stoop disappears as he steps forward with confidence – no, _ease _– to catch his falling daughter.

Even as she falls, giggling, into his arms, Sherlock can see the comprehension of his wife's death settling around his eyes and mouth and back into his posture. But it doesn't matter. Sherlock's reeling; understanding of what he's just seen overloading his mind, changing what he's thought to be true.

_John was right._

_I was wrong._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock doesn't know how long he's been standing on the pavement. He's numb from the cold and being pushed around by irate shoppers and it's gotten even darker around him, although he's having trouble moving his stiff hands out of his pockets to tell what time it is.

But he doesn't mind. It's worth it, worth it for the rich, beautiful data to be analysed and sorted and stored and contrasted with his previous memories and knowledge. He feels excited, dizzy at the prospect of re-evaluating his ideas to accommodate his hypothesis, his _new _hypothesis, and the more he sees the more he's convinced that he's finally got it right.

He can't wait to tell John.

He knows John is worried. His phone has been buzzing on and off for approximately an hour now, but his hands won't work with him to answer it. Sherlock doesn't really mind, not really. He knows John will find him. John always finds him.

And when he does, he knows John will be proud of him. So he waits, the cold biting at the tip of his nose and the lobes of his ears and gnawing at his bones.

He's not prepared for the rush of happiness he feels when he glimpses the sandy-blonde hair through the thickening crowd. Unconsciously smiling, he steps forward, eager to catch John's attention, but his legs buckle under him and he falls.

Fleetingly, as he hits the pavement, he hears the girl; her exuberance, her upset, and her euphoria at being picked up, being saved.

_Come on, John_.

And now he can feel his legs and head complaining at him, but they're drowned out by John's slightly panicked tone and the feel of John's hands checking his pulse, his pupil dilation and his responses.

He tries to open his mouth to tell John about his day, but he can't move his lips very well and John interrupts him anyway with a blistering tirade about what an idiot he is to go off and not tell anyone and why the hell he was standing around in Oxford Street for an entire day is anyone's guess but on second thoughts he'd really rather not know.

It hasn't escaped Sherlock's attention that while John berates, his warm hands take Sherlock's icy cold ones to thaw them. Sherlock smiles, and allows himself to be scolded and fussed over and helped to his (shaky) feet.

He wants to tell John all about his observations and conclusions. He wants to talk about the widow father, consoling his upset child, and about the countless other acts he witnessed during the day. The young woman, pulling a daydreaming man out of the way of a London bus intent on running a red. The banker, who hailed a taxi for an old woman. The same group of teenaged girls, comforting a friend over a breakup.

He wants to say to John, _I have a new hypothesis. I thought I was right, but I wasn't. I understand now._But he's tired and his lips aren't working, so he concentrates on walking, leaning heavily on John as they make their way back home. The feel of John's support under his arm makes the silhouette of the girl and her father rise once more, unbidden, in front of his eyes.

_They're everywhere. I believe you now. I understand. They exist for everyone. Even for me._

_Heroes._


End file.
